No one sees me at my worst like nameless strangers that pass by me at the
worst timings of their lives.
I may have found myself thanking God a few too many times for that, too, if not at all, because
solace and comfort is the lurking of a faceless, shameless name who
projects her heartache on a big screen.
One simple, inversed-related equation:
my name, my nightmares.
I don't give out burnt pieces of me to those I love so
I puke on passerby's, and breakdown in front of people I will only meet once or twice
in my life.
Keep my hands clean when I caress my loved ones. No stains.
I've noticed I've worked backwards with all of my friends. Built friendships over shared grief,
which gradually turned into them knowing more of my name,
then so less of the things that keep me up at night.
